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WARNING: This novel contains explicit language, sexual situations, and is the story of an addict. This material is intended for a mature audience. "My name's Jag Steele. I’m the lead singer and guitarist to the band Pandemic Sorrow, and I have a drug problem. Well, I mean it's not really a problem – unless you count the fact that I almost made my heart explode from all the blow I shoved up my nose a few weeks back..." That was my introduction during my first stint in rehab. I'm messed up. If you asked anybody who I am there’s a list they will go down: Famous, rock star, legend, drug addict, womanizing man-whore, but if you asked me, I wouldn't have the first idea of what to say, because I don’t know who Jag Steele is. Really, I’m living every other damn person's dream, and all I want is reality. Roxy Slade, that girl was my reality. My brutally flawed and beautifully broken reality. And she hated everything I stood for. To her I was just one of “those guys”, and she’d rather be buried alive with poisonous snakes than give someone like me a piece of toilet paper to wipe their ass with. Brutal. Life. Is. Brutal. And it is just a giant pain, which is why I chase after anything to make it numb, anything that can fill this void. I just want anything that can make me not feel. I just don't want to feel.